


Before the Never: a compromise

by depresane



Series: Vissenvaib the Gorion's Blunderer [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Candlekeep, Canon Compliant, Childhood, Education, Fictional Languages, Fictional Religion & Theology, Forests, Gen, Languages, Languages and Linguistics, Mention of Minor Character Death, Nature, Pre-Canon, Rashemi, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-05 15:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: A short story with Vissie. She's supposed to be nine years old here.





	1. Chapter 1

“Daaaaad,” yelled a half-elf child with a bronze necklace, “I want to see a forest.”  
A pale man, clearly a guardian rather than a biological father, answered too quickly, “There’s a book with woodcut illustrations…”  
“No. Not like that.”  
“Oh, you want to go outside Candlekeep.”  
“Yes.”  
He smiled awkwardly. “Well… We don’t do that.”  
The child tensed. Their ears moved down a little. “Really?”  
“Whenever we need to relax, we just take a stroll in the garden or look at clouds.”  
“And you’re not bored?”  
“No.”  
“Why do you… live like this? Without going outside?”  
“We dedicate ourselves to studying books.”  
They frowned.  
“What’s the matter?”  
“I’m not fine. Like… I’m not sick. But I don’t know how to call this feeling.”  
“I see.”  
  
Later that day, the foster father approached a wizard.  
“Well met, Obe. May I entrust you with a request?”  
“It depends.”  
“Vissenvaib asked me if we could leave Candlekeep and see a forest. I thought that you could cast an illusion for her.”  
Obe shook his head. “She’s too young. She might believe the illusion to be real.”  
“I would inform her.”  
“Children don’t function like this. No matter how many times you warn them about strangers, one puppy distracts them into obedience. Their emotions take over their reasoning.”  
“I understand that much. Their emotions are strong. Which is why I want to grant her a visit in a forest, any forest, before she grows impatient.”  
Obe sighed. “Don’t. Even if she knows it’s an illusion, she’ll want more and you’ll only worsen the situation. She has to understand our lifestyle and adapt to it.”  
  
But Vissenvaib had no strength to adapt any further.  
A teacher gave her a sheet of paper and said, “Decline the word zhivot, just singular.”  
The child rammed her forehead against her desk.  
“Why are you doing this?”  
“I’m tired!”  
“Don’t yell. Do you need a nap?”  
“No.”  
“But you’re tired. Is it because of grammar?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know. Or maybe I know. I just can’t.”  
“Are you annoyed?”  
“Maybe??” she started crying.  
“What annoys you?”  
“Everything.”  
The teacher waited.  
“That we don’t go anywhere. We don’t visit other cities. We don’t bathe in the sea. We don’t rest in the woods. We don’t sing anything. You stopped teaching me songs. My back hurts. My hand hurts. My buttocks hurt. I can’t think. I can’t play. Why? Why can’t I play??” her voice broke on the last word.  
  
The guardian put away his book, seeing Vissenvaib and her teacher at the door-frame.  
“Sir. She’s mentally exhausted. I can’t teach her until she rests properly.”  
He nodded. “Was she aggressive?”  
“Not physically.”  
“I see. Alright, I’m glad you brought her back. I’m sorry for this.”  
The child ran to her room, ignoring her foster father.  
  
Days passed. The half-elf played her tiny drum, starting every morning, taking breaks for meals and bathroom.  
The man waited for a letter. When he finally received it, he knocked to the door. “Vissie?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m coming in.”  
“Yes.”  
He sat beside her. “I have great news. We’re going outside tomorrow.”  
She froze. The message grew in her mind like the rising sun. She smiled. She dropped the drum and jumped. “Naresh! Idemy do shûmy! Shûûûmyyy! Ale faĭnĭe! Bûdo ptûûûshkiii! I dreeevaaa!”  
  
The letter was crucial to the guardian’s decision due to Candlekeep’s strict rules. One was not granted an entrance to the citadel unless they donated a book. Therefore, the man asked a friend of his for help. Luckily, they had both a unique copy and time to travel West. The foster father could focus on other matters such as his old, leaking tent that required a quick repair.


	2. Chapter 2

Vissenvaib was too excited to fall asleep. She packed up faster than her guardian. She rocked sideways, humming, “Shûûûmaaa, shûûûmaaa.”  
The teacher met her on the grand floor of the library. “Poz dravĭam tebe,” she greeted her.  
“Pani Ĭad Vinĭa! Ĭak tam?” _How’s it going?_  
“A, spakoĭnĭe. Ĭak tam û tebe?” _Peacefully. How are you?_  
“Tsûdesnĭe! Idem do shûmy z oĭtsem!” _I’m feeling wonderful! I’m going to the forest with father!_  
“Serĭosna?” _Really?_  
“Da! Oĭtso saglasĭavil sĭe! Tsheba mu ĭeno… napravitch… Nĭe znam slova,” _Yes! Father agreed! He only has to… repair… I don’t know a word._  
“Znasz li slovo po ĭenolitemu?” _Do you know the word in Common?_  
“A tent.”  
“Aa. To plahtostan.”  
“Plahtostan! Spas. On napravi plahtostan. Chekam ĭak na moĭ rodny-den, ĭak na ûtchte,” _Thanks. He’s repairing a tent. I’m waiting as if it was my birthday, my feast._  
They chatted in simple Rashemi for two minutes.  
  
The family strayed from the Lion’s Way into the forest. Its broadleaf trees, growing sparsely, let an abundant amount of daylight pass through.  
Vissenvaib ran around her guardian, jumped back and forth, looked around in awe. She forgot about her own mouth, leaving it open in a huge smile. Then, she sat down and gazed at branches. A gentle wind was caressing the trees, making them sough.  
“Shûûûmaaa,” she began again, amused by the noun itself.  
Her foster father unrolled the floor of his tent. “What is a shoomah?”  
She answered happily, “It’s a foooreeest. First, there was shûm, a noise from the nature. Waves of the sea create a shûm. Trees create a shûm, too. So the Rashemi named the woods shûûûmaaa.”  
“A fitting name.”  
“Indeed. Hey,” her voice lost the joy, “You don’t speak Rashemi?”  
“No.”  
“Why?”  
“I’m not Rashemi, and I focus on different hobbies, so…”  
“But then… Why am I… not in Rashemen?”  
“Because there’s war over there.”  
“Oh.”  
“Your mother wanted you to learn your language and grow up in peace. Once you’re an adult, you will decide where you want to live.”  
She nodded.  
“You will also be able to change your name. All adult have this right.”  
“What’s wrong with my name?” at the time, she didn’t know about Thay and its awful practices.  
“It’s not a Rashemi name.”  
“Huh.”  
“Your mother… It’s a heartbreaking part of your history. You will be taught in your teen years.”  
“Alright.”  
“But I can tell you this much: your mother lost her tradition. She couldn’t speak Rashemi; she didn’t even know she was Rashemi. But she found out. And she told me to ensure you will learn Rashemi.”  
“I see.”  
“There’s more to reclaim in your tradition because you’re a half-elf. Half-elves always have two cultures merged by their existence. Oh, that might be difficult for you. Um…”  
“I’m Rashemi and someone else.”  
“Ah, yes, exactly. Sadly, your mother only managed to reclaim one of the two before her death. You, as an adult, will try to discover your second identity.”  
“Yes, dad.”  
Her serious expression worried him. “Relax. There’s plenty of time.”  
She smiled, stood up and hugged her guardian. He didn’t hug her back because she tended to dislike that.  
  
A woodpecker was pecking a tree a yard away. Vissenvaib was gazing at it and mimicking the sound, “Pûk, pûk. Pûk. Pûk pûk. Pûk.”  
The tent stood complete. The foster father sat at its entrance, watching the child. He let her be.  
  
Back when she was an infant, he thought he was prepared. The citadel, the bronze amulet, the Rashemi teacher.  
But then he noticed something.  
There were very few children in Candlekeep, but she didn’t mind that. Ants were enough to entertain her. She even told him once that she made up stories for those ants. Some were heroes, some were heretics and rebels.  
“How about people?” he asked her that day, “Are they not interesting?”  
“Only Ĭad Vinĭa.”  
“Not even me?”  
“You’re passable.”  
“Oh. But don’t tell others. It is a social rule to love and respect your parents.”  
“Don’t worry, dad. I respect you.”  
It seemed that even she knew. From time to time, she had a spark of genius in her, a flash of realization. It could be subtle; it could be strong and overwhelming, bringing tears and powerlessness.  
“When will be the right time to tell her?”  
He didn’t know. He wasn’t ready for that kind of burden.  
  
He set up a bonfire for the evening.  
Vissenvaib cuddled his arm. “You know, dad… Whenever there’s night-time and one source of light, I have a feeling that the whole world stopped existing except for the lit place.”  
“Is it disturbing or comforting?”  
“I don’t know. My mind is just funny like that.”  
She sat with him for a while, then released his arm and rocked herself, staring at the fire.  
“I think I’ll go to sleep,” she concluded.  
“Don’t forget to pray.”  
“Aye. Good night.”  
She went to the tent. She recited a prayer from a piece of paper; it was her own work. When she talked to people, she articulated sounds carefully and hypercorrectly, but her prayer was blurred; she assumed gods understood her regardless.  
Her voice spoke softly, “O Oghma, I thank You for Your protection and the knowledge from today. O Triad, Corellon, and Labelas, I thank You for Your aid. O Sehanine, bring me peaceful dreams and regenerating rest.”  
  
Her morning prayer was much longer: “O Sehanine, I thank You for your dreams. O Oghma, save me from deception and trickery that might stalk me today. Watch over me so that I can accept the knowledge my caretakers give me. Aid me so that I can be wise and self-reliant. O Tyr, watch over me when I am too weak to bring justice, and aid me so that I can avoid ill judgement. O Ilmater, watch over me and aid me so that I can be kind and constantly encouraged. O Torm, watch over me and aid me so that I can listen to my caretakers. O Corellon, keep me inspired. O Labelas, aid me in decisions.”  
She left the tent, stood up and stretched. The morning painted the sky, clouds, and the trees around her. A sparrow was singing on a beech. A squirrel ran to a chestnut tree and climbed it. A boar stood in a distance, looking for food.  
Vissenvaib grinned. “When I grow up, I’ll be living in a forest like this one. Well, maybe near a town. I’ll be composing at home and performing at town. A perfect combination.”


End file.
